


Stops & Starts

by afteriwake



Series: The Art Of Communication [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coffee date, F/M, Heartbroken Molly, POV Molly Hooper, Poor Molly, Postcards, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:23:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9881813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: When the coded postcards that Sherlock was sending stop, Molly begins to believe the worst and decides to move on, until the day she gets rid of her albums and they’re brought back to her stoop just moments later.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChiefDoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChiefDoctor/gifts), [MissClaraOswinOswald](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissClaraOswinOswald/gifts).



> So this fic was inspired by a comment to the first fic in the series "Repeated Rhythms and Patterns" by **ChiefDoctor** that went " _I think he should hand deliver his last one (from London) to her doorstep._ " I finally got around to writing it when **MissClaraOswinOswald** claimed it in my Sherlolly Prompt Claim in January and I decided to write it for my personal Molly Madness Month.

When the rhythm stopped, she worried.

It wasn’t as though there was a slowing to it, or a tweaking of the ebb and flow. It was just a sudden stop. The postcards that had come almost like clockwork just stopped. At first, she was just worried it was a momentary delay, but the longer that delay went on, the more her heart sank. The more she thought “He’s gone, he’s really gone.”

She put up a front for those in her life who didn’t know anything, which was everyone except Mycroft. Mycroft conveniently had stopped being of any help in calming her fears, letting her phone calls and texts go unanswered. She would put on her brave face, and in the quiet moments send out texts to Mycroft.

_Do you know anything? Molly_

_What’s going on? Molly_

_Is he alive? Molly_

And the longer she went without answer the harder she cried when she got home, curled up with Toby on her bed, the one he had so often commandeered as his bolt hole in the past. She felt a hole inside her that nothing and no one could fill, no matter how much they tried, the few who could tell that _something_ was wrong no matter how brave a face she put on.

Eventually, though, she knew this couldn’t last. Everyone else had mourned Sherlock ages ago, mourned him properly and moved on. Even John had, having a new life with a wonderful woman by his side. Perhaps it was time she did too. Perhaps she should let go of the postcards and let go of Sherlock, once and for all, and move forward instead of clinging to the past and all its might have beens.

She took her time about it, going through the last of the cycles of grief until she felt she was almost ready for acceptance. Acceptance meant losing that last glimmer of hope, that he was alive, that he would come back to London.

To her.

And while she knew she should give him up, give up that hope, part of her held on, stubbornly. Oh, the tug of war in her heart made her miserable until she finally couldn’t take it anymore. She hauled out the postcards to give them one last look, to remember the messages and trace Sherlock’s journey, before she packed them in a box and set them out by the rubbish bin.

Her heart was heavy when she went back inside, and she went to pour herself a glass of wine to help keep the tears at bay, or so she hoped, when she heard a knock at the door. She took a deep breath to steady herself, and then went to open the door, only to find no one there.

But not nothing. On her doorstep was the cardboard box full of albums, and a stack of postcards on top. Her eyes widened as she bent down to pick up the stack of postcards. She expected them to have been pulled from the albums, someone’s idea of saying “these are memories too precious to lose” but they were all _new_ postcards. None of them had been mailed, and each of them were in Sherlock’s meticulous handwriting. No trying to fake friend or family’s handwriting this time.

Her hands were trembling as she went through the small stack. Iraq, Mozambique, Sweden, Brazil, British Columbia, San Diego, Japan, Serbia...he’d kept them but not sent them. The messages were shorter, and they weren’t the same message found in the code. It was a new message in all but one: “It’s almost done. I’ll be home soon. Be safe.”

But the one from Serbia, no code was needed. It was the longest by far; not a scrap of blank postcard was left on it. She ran her fingers across the words that seemed to be Sherlock pouring his heart out, saying he knew that this was not the way he had wanted things to go, but it looked as though it was the end. He might not get out of the situation alive as he had hoped. He cared for her dearly and wanted the best for her, as he always had. If this was indeed his end, he wanted her to know he knew how she felt and, perhaps if fate had allowed otherwise, his feelings could have been returned, someday. And then…

Then he asked her to forget him. To move on and be happy and live a life without him.

She sank onto the floor next to the box and turned over the postcard as tears fell from her face. She had hoped that, perhaps, these new postcards meant he was alive. But no, he had to be dead. There was no reason to deliver _this_ one if he wasn’t, telling her to move on with her life and to let him go. Mycroft had to have done this. Didn’t he realize the pain this would cause her? To tell her to keep all these postcards when Sherlock himself said to forget? She should have burnt the lot of them. She should have thrown it all into a great roaring fire so her heart wouldn’t have to break again. She--

“Molly?”

Her head snapped up at the familiar baritone, sounding so uncertain, so unsure. Her eyes widened as she saw Sherlock himself standing on the other side of the box, holding a postcard in his hands, his fingers tapping nervously against it. “You’re alive,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said.

She scrambled to her feet, dropping the postcards and not caring that they scattered on the floor. She hesitantly reached forward and touched his chest, just to make _sure_ he was real, and he was, solid and warm against her fingertips. After a moment she smiled. “You’re a bloody bastard,” she said.

“I just thought it would be a waste to not add the other ones,” he replied. “Or this one.” He handed her the last postcard. It was from London, and she turned it over to see it too was not written in code. It simply said. “I’m home. I’m thankful to you for everything you’ve done. Coffee?”

She looked up at him, nodding slowly and then fingered the postcard in her hand. “I think coffee sounds lovely.”

“Good,” he replied.


End file.
